Un Cœur pour la Révolution
by Leara Bribage
Summary: Enjolras strives to fight for France's liberty with his friends from its monarchs while Éponine tries to forget about Marius and survive. Together, they endeavor for emancipation. But does the chief really know what's at stake for the revolution? Will a gamine show him that the heart of a rebellion lies within, not just outside with harshly inspired speeches and an émeute?
1. Cold and Dark

**[A/N]: **Here it is, then, my tribute for this fateful day. This is what I've promised my fellow readers/writers in _Dawn A Glance_. I hope you still remember me. This is my favorite work, other than _That's What You Get for Waking Up in Vegas _and _Dawn A Glance_. I really hope you will like it, m'amie. And I hope you enjoyed the Barricade Day. (It's quite fine for me even if my school decided to start classes today. Really, my school is such a bummer.) Oh, and I'd rather remind you, the full summary of this is in my tumblr, poeticbibliophile.

And I'd like to thank my dear beta, **Romas1912**, for helping me fixing the errors. I really appreciate your help, insight, and suggestions. I dedicate this story to you, as well. :)

**Disclaimer: **No musket, bayonet, saber, pistol, or deathly glares are needed to bring me down because I did not live in 19th century Paris, France (though most of the people who knows me would rather beg to differ), am not male, and/or _that_ wise enough to be Victor Hugo to create the beloved characters and their stories, who and which I will now be writing about. The music and lyrics from the musical, movie, or whatever you like to call it I am utilizing as quotes (I'd rather call them 'warnings' because they are, sort of) are not crafted from the neurons my brain has, so rest assured, m'amie, that they are all credited (always, mind you) to these wonderful people, too – Alain Boublil & Michel Schönberg & Jean-Marc Natel & Herbert Kretzmer. It is the plot only that I own, 'nothing more'. Seriously. Well, unless I make a song or poem for it, then, that's mine, but, I will tell you when it is so.

Have fun reading it, then!

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** + Chapter 1 + **

**Cold and Dark**

_For the wretched of the earth, there is a flame that never dies…_

- _Do You Hear the People Sing? _(Epilogue)

"How _dare_ you, you insolent child! How dare you _defile _the name _and_ prestige of this household! How dare you! We are _royalists_! I raised you to _be _one, to be _loyal_ to the monarchs of our nation—to the _King_!" His father, who tried not to breakdown _or _hit his own son, scolded him. Enjolras only raised his head in defiance and looked at the man he considered his pére for _so_ many years. The leader of les mis'l abaissé held his breath to keep his marmoreal resolve, but in his mind, he was reasoning with logic why he wanted to do this—to lead a revolt for the liberty of his native land. His reasons crowded in his brain, so without meaning to, he let it slip out of his mouth. He was not one to lose control easily, but his father was pushing the barricades of his firm self- control down.

"_Mon pére_, people are _dying_, and the king is doing nothing! _Nothing_ at all! All he favors doing is warring with other countries to gain achievement and popularity! His _line_ promised freedom and equality for all, but what now?" He said back. "France needs emancipation from so many things—pauperism, _asphyxiation_ from an unjust law and discriminating society, prostitution, and some children are not educated, for this privilege has not been extended to them; and diseases are rampant; and the sewers are not regularly cleaned!"

"_Father_, you accuse me of _defiling_ our name and prestige, but I am doing the _exact _opposite! I am upholding it! I'm bringing it a pure, fresh life! I'd rather deny being a royalist than _deny _my countrymen of their freedom! I'm giving my life a pur—" Enjolras was cut by a punch to the gut from his father.

"_Enough_, I no longer consider you _mon fils_," his father coldly announced. "_Gather _your things—_all _of it! I want _no _sign of you ever to remain in this house. To think that I gave you time and money, so you can study to serve the king… was _utter_, _foolish _waste. Well, I take them back! _All _of it! Your inheritance shall never, ever be yours! You will receive no sou or franc or napoleon or louis'dors from me. I _forsake_ you!"

Enjolras dared one last glance at his father despite the gagging pain from his stomach. He stared at his father's eyes—they were the clear blue eyes that he had inherited—and saw nothing but hatred and repulsion for him. He thought that he would see at least a small quantity of pity and love from him, but it was not there—_gone_, like he implicated in his words.

His own azure eyes hardened as blood poured from his lips and trickled down his white shirt, but he remained stoic as he ignored it, for he felt empty. When a father has lost his love for his own son, only one thing can a son do—nothing, for an old dog can no longer learn a new trick, such as pardon; for forgiveness from an obstinate person will reap long, hurtful years until the aged scoundrel realizes the rapport's lost value.

"_Out _of my sight, now, you traitor," his father ordered roughly, kicking Enjolras once more in the same place he punched him. The young bourgeois—now, a destitute—moaned in pain, but tried to stand and leave his… this antediluvian _man_. He limped in his endeavor, but, nonetheless, he managed to get to the knob of the door and hold it. Using his right hand to hold and massage his sore abdomen, he used the other to twist the doorknob slowly. Before he could leave, he heard his father mutter, "Weak". He turned his head a little and wearily said, "_Au revoir_, _mon pére._"

He left him speechless in the room to go out and see the drawing chamber where he found his mother weeping on a chair near it. When his mother's eyes cleared for a moment, she was surprised to see the blood on his lips, so she stood, walked towards him and used the white kerchief she was crying on to dab it. Enjolras tried to refuse, but he hesitated because of his mother's silent plea and the pain from his stomach. "_Ma, mére_, waste no more tears for me. I am no longer your beloved _fils_. M'sieur has stripped me of bearing the name of this household. Shed no more, please, at least, in this life," Enjolras pleaded, trying to be strong in the presence of his mother. He didn't want to be a failure in her eyes, for she would be the only hope he would have.

"But you shall always be _my_ son! I have birthed you in labor! You are of my own flesh and blood! How can I not weep for you and your pére?" His mother answered, bitter tears falling from her eyes as she ceased taking care of him. "I shall be wailing _forever_! My love for him has turned cold because of this…. He'd rather abandon his _own _son than the monarchs!" She sobbed in her hands, and Enjolras embraced her for one last time as he tried to comfort her.

"Oui, ma mére, I am, and I forever regret father's illusion of the king," Enjolras replied silently, gripping her tightly. "But, please, do not forget that I love you both—even if the man I lived to know as my father has ceased to. I have to fight, ma mére, for the liberty of this nation. If I have to die for that endeavor, then I must. I'd rather die than live and see my nation suffer from that illness."

His mother looked up at him and took his face in her hands. "But, _mon fils_, can you not? Can you just _not_ start and lead a revolution, so that you can live and be with us, or just me, for the peace of all in this household? Can you not?" Enjolras gazed at his mother as if he was seeing her for the first time. He was surprised and frightened that his mother dared even suggest such a _prospect_ to him. He released her and took her hands away in response. She had always been the one to come and agree with his side, but why was she now rebuking him with these kinds of pleas?

"_Ma mére_, you know that I _cannot _do what you are asking me to do! That's to live as if in a dream and not mind the problems of our society—of France! I can't, ma mére, and I hope you understand. I know you _do_. Bear with me, please," he pleaded, as he felt himself revert to his usual marmoreal feelings and façade. But not before a single tear fell from his eye. "If I have to die... so be it, but remember me, ma mére, for I shall live… in your heart forever. And… that would be enough for a son like me." Enjolras wasn't a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve or lips, but he was having a hard time saying goodbye to his mother.

His mother's green eyes begged one last thing—for him to reconsider once more, but he shook his head. Enjolras turned to leave and collect his things, but before he could, his mother took his hand. He didn't turn to face her anymore, for the heartbreak in her eyes was too much. She spoke wearily and sadly. "There is… a lodging I have hidden from your father's knowledge. You can live there. It's just behind the academy that you are studying at, but beware that it is quite near the miscreants of Paris." She squeezed his hand when he shook his head and tried to argue. "Now, do_ not_ disobey or question me. Please, _mon fils_, just do that one last thing for me. It would be… enough for a mother like me."

Enjolras turned one more time to face and tell her, "_Merci, _ma mére". His mother smiled, a gift to her once youthful appearance, for it brought a lightness to her features and gave Enjolras one last happy memory with her. "And remember, my son, another thing—in the bedroom of that humble lodging, under the bed is a trap door—a covert place for the money I have safely kept in there. Use it wisely to your advantage, or anyone of need, if it be," his mother told him in a whisper. "I give you my blessing. And… now, I bid you my farewell, mon fils." She kissed his forehead swiftly and then released her hand from him. Enjolras bowed slowly—as respect to his mére and because the soreness in his abdomen still lingered—and left to gather his things.

~o0o_Un Cœur pour la Révolution_o0o~

A Day after…

Éponine trudged along the dark rues of Paris. Sundry people dwelled in the place. There were thieves hovering about. Destitute and frail women and children lingered about, asking for alms and Providence. But there were malefactors in disguise and on the rues, looking out for unsuspecting rich men and women. She did not mind the nebulous aura of the place she was walking on, for she had a purpose in mind. And why should she mind it? She was only a child, oui, but _hard_ to scare.

She has grown and woken from the little, dreamy, spoiled bubble she used to live in to the harsh realities of life. But even as she tried to keep her head focused on wiping the unsuspecting monsieur of the wallet in his pocket, recollections of how she was able to live with piles of dolls and money on her bed kept tapping on her head. The desolate gamine shook her head at the memories of her once luxurious childhood and was about to take the purse from the young lad when he suddenly turned in her direction.

It was good thing, however, that she managed to gyrate around him and was, therefore, already a step away from that man when he finally did. The young bourgeois looked around him and then sighed when he saw that he missed her. She frowned. Éponine wasn't able to steal his wallet. That meant that she would have to go home without a sou or franc to present to her father, who would be gravely disappointed and, thus, send her to the Patron-Minette—especially, Montparnasse—to be treated like a… human _doll_, who isn't… alive and conscious of the _pain_ brought to her. Sometimes, she'd rather be beaten by her father than face that wretch and smell his disgusting breath and feel his wandering hands.

She grumbled in anger and proceeded to glare at the back of that lad's head. The bourgeois' hair was blonde and curly, and he wore a red coat, which because of its brightness, made him stand out in the rue, with him. She clucked her tongue and thought, _What man wears red when there is no occasion to be celebrated? It only makes him a vulnerable and _distinctive_ target. _

She shook her head and made a detour in the corner of the rue to find another victim. And, sure, she could find another one to steal money from in that place, but the pockets of the majority of those living in that area were quite scant. That young man was supposed to be her _big _catch that day, but circumstances were jeopardized, so she ran.

At the turn, she discovered a gaudy man flaunting his satchel of napoleons to a prostitute. "Come now, lovely lady, spread yourself before me, and you'd have half of this gold for it. I'd give you a _good_ time, too," the man winked as he cajoled the lady, who looked at him frighteningly. Éponine guessed that that girl was new to how things were—she still looked pretty in her full brown locks and… _virgin_. No doubt that mid-forties man wanted her.

Her beauty was still distinctive, not like the old hags who did nothing but shag men around for money. Éponine shook her head again—she _knew_ how it felt and what was at stake for them to do that. To scorn at them for doing that was hypocrisy on her part. They were desperate, and desperation would always seek to have the fastest, easiest, most convenient way of getting a ticket to live in this harsh world of France.

"I—I can't, m'sieur. _Please_, don't," the young prostitute replied as he tried to pull her towards him. The kitschy man frowned and roared at her, "But you're a _whore_! Now, _come_ with me on that dark alley and _lay _down!" Éponine tried to move on and let them have their business alone, but the young girl's tears stopped her. It reminded her of her sister, Azelma, when she was forced to do it the first time. She was just an innocent child.

Éponine, being the older, had endeavored to prevent it from ever happening to her, but when their pére and mére were being desperate for money, they just pushed them both to the Patron-Minette, who had a lot of money from their successful schemes of robbery and God-knows-what-other-malevolence.

It was a night they wanted to forget. They were pushed, pulled, and taken advantage of all around. Éponine was trying hard to get used to it by not shedding a tear because she was already _quite _adept with it when they _needed_ a franc, but 'Zelma wasn't able to suppress hers. She sobbed hard and loud, so the men slapped her cheek and told her to shut up while they forced their manhood into her childhood and womanhood. Some put it in her pure lips, so it did quite silence her. But the bitter tears continued to pour from her closed eyes. 'Ponine tried to console her afterwards, saying that she would just get back at those men who took her innocence away. Éponine was tough and has done her share of regretted crimes, after all, but even the bravest Amazonian warrior has a heart for their sisters.

"Don't, 'Ponine," the red-haired sister said in between sobs, "_Don't_. It's not worth it. They'll never learn how to stop. But, thank you, for comforting me, anyway. Now, I understand the pain you're going through… every night that they forced you to become a prostitute for _those_… uncouth men." Azelma put her face in her hands and cried silently. "I will _never_ be able to find a prince like mére used to dream about. My virginity has been taken."

So, when that young girl cried, Éponine turned and hit the flashy man in the head. It was good that she did, because he has already successfully torn the girl's chemise and ragged skirt and was about to pounce on her. Before the man had fallen on top of the prostitute, however, she grabbed his collar and hauled him, who was quite heavy, a bit out of the way.

Éponine took the satchel of gold and gave half of it to the poor girl, who was desperately trying to cover her exposed body with her hands and what's left of her original garments. "Here, you have the other half of my shawl," she said, as she tore and gave it to the crying lady, who took both the napoleons and article of clothing from her.

"Merci, mad'moiselle," the young prostitute told her, smiling, despite the tears.

Éponine shook her head for what must be the hundredth time that day. "I'm _no_ mademoiselle, my dear. But you're welcome, anyway. Now, hurry, before that man wakes up and discovers his _precious_ money is gone."

The girl nodded, and with that, the gamine ran to a place they, the Thérnardiers, called home in the Gourbeau House.

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**[A/N]:** How is it, then, m'amie? Deep? Heavy? Wonderful? I don't know about you, so tell me, then! And, hey, my wonderful readers in my other stories, I did mean it when I said a "deeper Enjonine story". I know you love modern AUs, but I do hope you'll love this one, as well.


	2. Young and Unafraid

**[A/N]: **Today is not my birthday, m'amie, as that will be on the fourteenth, but I will update anyway because I am not sure if I would be able to do so on that day. I'm not exactly disappointed if I only have a few reviews since they were note-worthy, and I promise you those things mentioned will be done when I have the luxury of time in my hands. I welcome reviews, anyway, because I like hearing your thoughts on this story. :) I do hope you enjoy it.

And special thanks to **Romas1912 **again for her wonderful suggestions and beta-ing this chapter. You've really helped me a lot, my friend! ^_^

**Disclaimer: **It is **my duty to the law** to hereby announce and proclaim that I own naught of the works and efforts of Victor Hugo and the whole production of Les Miz. Let me cry now.

* * *

**+ Chapter 2 +**

**Young and Unafraid**

_Like the waves crash on the sand, _

_Like a storm that'll break any second… _

- Workers ft. Fantine, _At the End of the Day_

_This only goes to show what little people can do!_

- Gavroche Thérnardier-Jondrette, _Little People_

Three days have passed since his father has forsaken him. He looked about in the little house his mother bequeathed him and has successfully memorized the ins and outs of it, even the secret nooks, where he can escape freely without being seen—given that the curtains would be drawn. It was a _humble_ house, yet a serpentine one.

It was a marvel, and Enjolras has already seen the gold his mére hid beneath the bed, but he hasn't touched it yet. He still had enough from the money he learned to save from his school days. He stood from the chair he was sitting on, and paced slowly, hitherto and thereto, to think of the vast space, where the niche was situated and hidden below his resting place. It seemed as if you could, dare he think it, fill it with a few of covert things such as his muskets or pistols—which his grandfather gave him, but did not use—and have three or five women and children lay down, but there would still be enough space to utilize—perhaps, he could require it for their cause. He will have to remember to tell that to them.

It was quite suspicious of his mother, but he was thankful all the same. His mére _did_ say to use it wisely and to his advantage. And a boon it was, for it _was_ just at the back of the academy, and a little turn around the cul-de-sac, plus, a few shortcuts in the dark rues—oui, he would dare if he must, and he would be near Le Café Musain to discuss tactics or Corinth to proclaim their cause for the liberty of France. They had started planning for it already this week—well, years, even, but to have it in reality was near the eruption, especially with General Lamarque fading—that's what the doctors were saying. And although the leader of les mis'l abaissé has given it _much_ thought, he would need every help he can get from his amis and the people—but the backroom of the café would _always_ be a given place to begin their coterie's conventicles.*

Enjolras stopped pacing and gazed below from his window. He saw the usual people roaming about. There were still the sick and desolate families asking for help, a help that would always be slower than a turtle or a snail to come. He saw, as well, the malefactors, who lived as they dared, but not only because they've lost hope—it was the only life they were born into and thus, lived for.

He sighed, remembering an incident of two mornings ago—he was almost robbed of his wallet. It was good he managed to elude the miscreant, who had successfully escaped behind him. He wasn't sure who it was, but it was a _girl—_he saw a flash of a ragged burgundy skirt, and therefore, a gamine, who had tried to steal from him. He had heard the footsteps—though it was quite made silent to the ears for the very purpose of thieving—and was more than thankful for his excellent sense of hearing, then, for it saved him trouble. Enjolras was maddened a bit, but he understood how life was on the other side of the wheel. Well, at least, by eye and theory. He was just beginning to grasp the reality of its cruelty.

The blonde schoolboy reminded himself that this would be the people he had to fight with and for. But, once again, he felt a pang of anger and hurt in his heart, both coming from the hatred from his father and the healing pain on his abdomen. Enjolras felt that it was as if to die with his heart shattered in pieces. He wasn't a lad to gawk at a lady no matter how pretty—no, he was certainly not that kind of lad, who'd rather waste his time on idle affairs, but if this… soreness and emptiness were the equivalent of that, then he'd rather admit—though it may be difficult—to himself that he was brokenhearted.

It is then decided—_long_ before he was forsaken for choosing to abandon the power of wealth that could have been bestowed upon him by his family. But that is not the life he wanted—years so cold, empty, and dark under the suffocating pressures from the higher classes of society and his parents—especially his father—to study, work, serve _and _marry. It simply was not what he yearned for in this life. And no attributed statue or celebrated feast to a savage Antinoüs can make him weaken his resolve to be fierce and violent against such petitions.

Enjolras had _long_ since heard the cries of the children of his fatherland, his Patria. It was agony—to see his brothers and sisters perish in their sufferings. Every day, he woke up from a clean, soft, and comfortable bed, but when he went out onto the streets, Enjolras would see how the youth were wasted and sleeping around the corners or alleys. Suffering and forgetting through the ways of Dionysus, just because they felt love scorned, justice mocked, and life killed them.

His mind pictured the flag of France, which was raised high and above the 'house' of their 'king'. _Where are the leaders of this land? _What beautiful show they present, what lovely vows they say for the poor and ill of their nation to their faces, but what of their promises and pleasant appearance when our backs are turned? _Aucun_.** What satiric jest of Shakespeare are they making?

This is the cross which he has to bear—a lovely gift from his Patria. Dejected for so long was their past, which he has to fight in the present, for the future of the ascending generations. This was his purpose in life. He didn't intend to be a hero, just someone who would lead his brothers and sisters to freedom, to their rights, to a new, beautiful, satisfied life... a leader who serves not just in words, but in actions.

He didn't want to fail his people like some of the officials in their land did. Enjolras has always felt this in his heart, stirring deep within the depths of his soul and mind to actuate it. He'd always look in the people of the streets, and it always struck him like a broken shard from a mirror's glass. They were a reflection of how hard it was to live in this harsh world.

So many lives… lost to a disease that could have been healed if they had enough money to buy a cure so expensive, so many days…. a street urchin could have spent studying at school and transcend. So many years… a convict could have spent working for a brighter future than stay behind the bars of an abysmal and cruel prison cell. So many….

He grunted and then moved away from the window, which revealed that day was soon fading and night was entering the expanse of the sky. _Gather_ yourself, Enjolras. _Be a man_. _It's not the time to be weak now; you still have to show your father and this country that you're strong and capable of leading others to emancipation_, he silently encouraged himself in his thoughts. No time for tears, or fears. No, no, not today, and certainly not on the _day_ of the revolution. He balled his hands and breathed, but even the magnificent marble statues of Michelangelo's David and Moses have its flaws.

Enjolras gazed at the clock hanging above the table where he kept his study manuscripts and things. Seven o' clock, it chimed. He better get to the café and meet with Combeferre and the others. It is time.

~o0o_Un Cœur pour la Révolution_o0o~

On That Same Night…

"You carcajou!**** Don't touch me! Mon pére did not say so yet!" Éponine screeched as Montparnasse licked his lips and put a hand under her chemise. He ignored her and continued wandering around the places he wasn't supposed to. The brunette gamine shivered out of disgust—which was gravely mistaken as excitement by him—and felt her lips turn pale. She did not release a single tear, just let him have his way, for fear that she would face another beating from her father. Terror, after all, caused by a parent is crueler than the face of shadows.

She told herself she _didn't _mind, but the beatings were getting more and more frequent—_all_ because she and Azelma couldn't give a sou back for two straight days. Languid, they were, her pére and mére accused, but they were doing all that they can! It was just harder these days. People were getting wiser and watchful of street urchins. She wanted to scoff at the people who pleaded in the streets, but found herself holding her angst. Begging for alms was more accepted by the society as a sight to behold and give mercy, but what of the 'fateful' miracles that occur in the night? Betrayal and treachery!

"Oi, 'Parnasse, Thérnardier's got a racket! He needs us—Gueulemer and Babet, too!" Claquesous shouted. Montparnasse grunted and removed his fingers from her buttocks. He huskily whispered to her, "I'll be back for more… later. Don't worry, I'll pay ye gold again. Better get ye'self cleaned up." He winked and then grabbed at her breasts to put his head between and squeezed them. He laughed as he went out.

Éponine stood there for a moment in utter shock and horror. She could not believe this! Her father… just _sold_ her like she was not his daughter! Again! What kind of pére does that? She sighed. _You ask yourself—a master of mischief and treachery is what_! The brunette gamine scolded. She cannot cry—she has got to be strong. You cannot live in the world being weak. The weak are always stepped on, spat on, and rebuked for it, so she decided to put on a brave face. But sometimes, she dreamed wistfully of the world's, well, the bourgeoisie's, riches; but no, that wasn't enough—she has got to make it real once more. Once more….

She threw a glass on the floor in her angst. Éponine felt the broken shards of the glass puncture her feet, but she ignored it. She saw and heard the common people go about their daily business through their window—which isn't really a window, but more like an open square to gawk outside—but her eyes were looking at something distant—a faraway memory when her father and mother cherished them all when they were children. Éponine felt tears water her eyes and blinked thrice to stop them from falling. Another noise woke her from her reverie—footsteps, tiny footsteps that hit the ground quite bouncily—it was her little brother Gavroche. Zounds! What a nice surprise—a visit from the little bird!

"'Ponine!" he said, smiling gaily, "'Ey, are ye all right? What's with the broken glass?" He kicked some bits away as he noticed the blood coming from her feet. Éponine sighed again and helped Gavroche. "No worries, just slipped from my hand, you see," she answered wearily. The little blonde gamin nodded, but said back, "Really? I know it's no' my bus'ness ye see, but when I came ye were just standing like the statues of those kings—_bleh —_and ye looked mad and sad or what."

Éponine bit her lip in irritation. Her little brother was perceptive of people. _Very_. She hated it when he would just look at her and see what was going on with her, even if they saw each other very little. Gavroche, who was rubbing his small hands, stared at her expectantly—waiting for a bit of explanation with what she was going through. She gazed at him and pouted. "_Fine_," she surrendered. "Things are getting pretty desperate, 'Roche. But don't worry about me, I'll make it. Azelma and I will. You? Still living in the elephant at Place De la Bastille?"

The little gamin smiled and nodded. "Oui. Still living on crumbs, though," he answered, scratching his head. Éponine sighed and stood to get something on her old man's coat. She took a loaf of bread and few spare sous and gave it to him. "Take that, and give it to your other amis, as well. _Don't _waste it too much. It might be all I can spare you tonight for this week," she replied. _Or perhaps, forever_, the gloomy sister thought.

Gavroche smiled widely and gaily again. He strode towards Éponine and hugged her as gratitude for the bread and sous. "Merci, merci, 'Ponine!" he exclaimed, and a few seconds later, released her. "Y'take care of ye'self, a'right? 'Zelma, too! Oh, right, where's she and mére?" The eldest sister grinned back a little, but frowned when he mentioned their mother. "Well, they're at St. Martin, earning a franc or sou, or doing a racket, just like pére and the _Patron-Minette_. I'm just here on watch for tonight as punishment for disobeying pére, though."

Her brother nodded sadly when she mentioned their mother, but stared at her worriedly when she said the name of the gang. "'Ponine, be careful, will you?" he said. "An' do try to 'void that—whossat, oh right—'Parnasse guy, I don't like 'im that much, really." Éponine grinned bitterly at little Gavroche's understanding and fretting over her. He was still a kid who knew too much of the world's cruelty. It wasn't good, but she couldn't do anything about it. Well, he was braver than her and Azelma since he managed to run away, but that still didn't mean that it was right for a boy—a child like him—to live that way—uncared and unloved, that is.

"I don't either," she said truthfully. "But I've got no choice because he pays pére rhino***."

Little Gavroche shrugged his worries away and replied, "Well, ye know I'll just be around, so scream or shout if ye need me." Éponine smiled and patted him on the hair. Her younger brother glared at his treatment from her, but she just chuckled and responded, "A'right. Now, go. Take care of yourself, too, oui?" The young gamine stepped towards the door and then turned, smirking smugly. "Look, 'Ponine, I may look just 'ike a pup and easy to pick on, but I 'no' 'ow to _bite_. _Rawr_!"

Éponine chuckled. Nodding after, she was about to say goodbye, but when she blinked, Gavroche was no longer there. Shaking her head and thinking, _Just like air_… _well, more like the bird that he is._ He was witty and a swift little kid, after all. She'd pay with everything she had just to have a day with her siblings. They were estranged from each other for so long before, but she tried to reach out to him. Not like she couldn't try. Her pére and mére have disowned him because they didn't really love him—more on their mére, oh, and not to mention, sold two of their younger brothers to a stranger for money. She didn't blame Gavroche for his flight. He'd rather be free than caged.

Suddenly, she heard a gunshot below. Éponine peeked from their 'window' and saw that the victim of the bullet was a bird—a tiny one, with its brown and wide wings still apart as if in midflight. She raised her brows a bit—_who kills a bird as little as that one in the night?_—but sighed sadly. People would do everything and have anything for food, so they can fill an empty stomach. Unconsciously, the desolate girl clutched her abdomen and felt deflated.

It was time to go outside for her stroll. Maybe it would take her mind off the food, or maybe she would at least glimpse the head of m'sieur Marius. That would help. Sighing dreamily, Éponine trudged out silently into the rues of Paris. Managing to avoid the calls of men and a few steps hitherto and thereto later, she found herself on the bridge crossing over the river Seine. She leaned on the rail, not minding the people walking to and fro behind her.

The pensive gamine put a fist under her chin and gazed down the river, liking the splashing sounds of the waves as it hit the rocks. The light of the moon illumined the water, and Éponine smiled because of the reminiscence of it to the sparkle of diamonds and jewels she often saw displayed on the stores. She wasn't ignorant as to how it would feel like to have it on her, since she's managed to steal one from a mademoiselle—since that one was quite arrogant—once. She's caressed and loved the feeling of feeling like a bourgeois lady—that is, well, until her pére had to sell it right after.

Frowning, Éponine looked up at the moon and stars. "Moonlight, be my friend tonight, will you?" she muttered sadly. "Starlight, will you promise to shine for me, too?" She knew it was foolish to talk to the heavenly bodies, but she just wanted company. For so long, so long since she had been truly happy... darkness had been her stonehearted protector, but the light was always her freedom and savior. Satisfied with her stroll, she began to walk home when she suddenly spotted the tall figure of a fair- haired and light- complexioned being. He was with a company of amis, she observed.

Squinting, she saw the unmistakable red coat of the monsieur. He was talking to one of his friends—well, that was what she assumed, given the jovial air and carefree manner of chatter amongst them—but he managed to perceive her lone figure on the bridge. Éponine gazed back, raising a brow, but turned when he did the same and continued her interrupted walk home. Hugging herself from the cold, she thought, _He _cannot_ recognize me, surely? I hope not, since I tried to steal from him_. Shaking those thoughts away, the desolate gamine hurried her steps before her pére and the others got home.

~o0o_Un Cœur pour la Révolution_o0o~

***Coterie –**a clique; people who usually meet together;** Conventicles – **secret meetings

****Aucun – **None.

*****Rhino** – money (laypeople's—or rather 19th century French argot—term at that time. If you read the novel, the Thérnardiers used it to refer to money when they tried to steal from—_and _murder—Valjean, who at that time made himself known as a brother to M'sieur Fauchevelent; so you can say that's like after the moment Cosette and Marius eyes each other for the first time if you're referencing the 2012 movie. It's quite the same with the play, but the variations with the scene in the musicals are far too many to say).

******Carcajou! **- wolverine; glutton.

**Light- complexioned being – **if you, well, read the novel (again), this was how Grantaire (or Navet or both; I am fairly certain, though, so if you read it, feel free to correct my daring) described him in the St. Denis part of _Les Misérables._ I had to borrow it, for description's sake. Forgive me, Victor Hugo, if I had to. Don't worry I credit it to you still.

**(Source/s: **Simon & Schuster's Enriched Classic 2009 Complete and Unabridged Paperback Version of Les Misérables, Google Translate—ah, hehe.**)**

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**[A/N]: **I hope everyone's all right? I'd like to hear your thoughts. :) I really admire little Gavroche here. _Rawr_.


	3. Storms Not Weathered

**[A/N]: **I'm sorry for the slow update. Hopefully, you will pardon the lack of E/E on this chappie. If I had any misinterpretations on anyone or anything (most specifically the European Robin), do tell me so. Thank you, and I hope you like this interlude of the Enjolrases.

**Disclaimer: This is not the moment to pronounce the words 'not mine'. No matter, I pronounce it and I glorify it. And so, it must be, for I cannot claim ownership on Les Miz and the world it has only ever known, that this story may flourish through reviews and favorites. And it is that Un Coeur may pursue that I write this disclaimer. **

Enjoy!

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**+ Chapter 3 +**

**Storms Not Weathered**

_But there are dreams that cannot be…_

- Fantine, _I Dreamed A Dream_

The ancient and lone olive tree in their backyard held in one of its outstretched branches a nest of a family of birds. Mme. Enjolras did not know when those little creatures of flight decided to build their shelter, or why it chose that particular olive tree, but she was happy, happy to hear their chirping in the morning. There was a distinctive euphoria in their twittering, and she could not help but be gladdened. Sometimes, however, it'd ire her in her most unfortunate days, but then the wind would blow and soften their tuning, so Élisabeth would then be comforted. Often than not, when she was lonely and did not expect her husband, she would play the piano with their seemingly endless chirping. Music had a certain calming effect on her, and even if she wasn't a connoisseur in playing the piano like her Olivier, she was content in tinkering with its black and white keys.

The blue, brown, and orange- breasted creatures of flight continued singing their morning songs in the background, and Élisabeth smiled. She watched a petit beating its wings bravely with the encouragement from what Mme. Enjolras supposed was its matron. Soon, the little bird flapped proudly individually. It had begun to gyrate around its nest, chirping happily. Some of its siblings were still eating—was her eyesight still proper?—small spiders and earthworms from the beak of the azure figure perched on the top of its nest. She narrowed her green eyes. _Ah, yes, spiders, indeed,_ she pouted her lips amusedly. The brave petit she was observing a while ago had succeeded flying over around its siblings and parents, beating its tiny blue wings with more fervent grace.

_Such a passionate spirit,_ she thought as it continued flying.

This reminded her of her son. She stopped focusing her gaze on the family of birds and looked instead on the railing of their balcony. She grasped it and sighed, trying not to feel the coldness it emitted—a sign that the clammy touch of the night has not yet fully succumbed to the dawn of light. _Much like what cher Aurélien would speak of the current state of France, it would seem, _she remarked melancholically. Shaking her head, Élisabeth directed her stare upon the tree and its inhabitants. She was surprised to see the little brave one chirping its way to her, as if bidding her a good morning. It rested near her right hand and twittered again. A slow, fond curl found its way on her lips as she gradually reached to caress it beneath its beak.

She couldn't offer anything, so she just gently continued tickling the bird. Seemingly satisfied with her treatment, it chirped and flapped its small yet strong wings. Testing the altitude, it would seem, the blue and orange- breasted petit twittered again to bid a goodbye to her and flew back to their nest in the lone, ancient olive tree.

_Oh, if only_, she thought fondly, _dreams such as these were reality._

Then hearing her name being called by her husband, she turned. Before leaving, however, Élisabeth spared one more glance to the family of those little creatures of flight and smiled once again. She remembered what kind they were—robins. Glad at that piece of information, she whistled a lost tune from her childhood and went inside.

"_And I'll let the wind carry my love to you…._"

~o0o_Un Cœur pour la Révolution_o0o~

"Élisabeth," she has heard him say for the seventh time that morning.

Mme. Enjolras did not gaze at her husband at breakfast. She purposely ignored him until he called her on it when they were eating their pot- au- feu. Élisabeth philosophized that if he chose her, but didn't even listen to her, well she was just going to have to pretend his existence was null, so she didn't answer. Hence, she simply continued to sip her soup. But by that time, Olivier was having none of this coerced negligence. Ignorance from his wife was something he had never had the time to tolerate.

He cried her real name this time, hoping that using it would draw her from the closet she was hiding herself in. Olivier Enjolras knew this as her greatest weakness because she always, always would respond to him if he chose that nomenclature instead of Élisabeth. _Ah, the frailty of wife and woman, _he thought, when her green eyes finally turned to him.

"You only call me by my true name when you need something," she answered, and raised a thin brow high, which seemed to say, 'And what is it?' Her posture was lax but refined—her back elegantly arched but touching the comfortable cushion of the chair, right hand holding the silverware daintily while the other was laid gently upon the arm hold, and all this betrayed none of her ire with him or the place she emanated from. Even now, she was still skillful in hiding the worst of her emotions. _Ah, the mistress of shadows…_, M. Enjolras thought.

Olivier snorted, training his blue eyes to focus on hers without faltering from her beauty. Even in silent rage and her declining age, Olivier would call himself a fool if he said he didn't find her wife beautiful. The graying strands of her hair did little harm to her fairness. Nor did the gradual wrinkling of her cheeks or hands made him think twice of his happiness with her. Or, perhaps, that was how he viewed it. Olivier loved her truly, and aged may they be, but he has pledged at the altar, so even if she was mad at him, he had promised her his love. Nonetheless, he was determined to know the cause of her dampened mood. _If this was because of..._him_, well..., _he thought, gritting his teeth. He found himself tightening his right hand into a fist until its knuckles turned white in restrained wrath.

"Tell me, are you still cross with me for forsaking that 'child' of yours?" he asked frankly, knowing that Élisabeth—or her other name, as she would sometimes prefer when they were alone—would rather he be direct with his queries and objectives.

Her green eyes widened a fraction for a second, but narrowed the moment she realized the implication of his query. For a moment, she could not and would not answer because she tried her best to still the tears fighting to well from her eyes. So she gripped her fork and breathed, taking her time to think of a reply to that horrendous and scandalous question. She blinked a few times and finally loosened her hold on the poor silverware and gazed at her husband Olivier.

"I think you must remember that 'that child' was a wonderful gift of our union, Olivier. He is not my child alone, but _ours_," she said, managing not to cry in front of him again. "And yes, I am still mad at you for that! How could you! You promised me! Even before I was christened Élisabeth into your family!"

Her real name he said rigidly, he answered crossly, "I am just trying to prevent him from experiencing what happened to me—to us! Can you not understand that I am doing this for him? For Aurélien? And you?"

"But Olivier, your promise... you promise you would defend him. I do not even care anymore if I would have need of it! I have my own ways and would be gone soon with you anyway, so I don't need much of your protection, but you gave me your word upon your _honor_, ma chérie," Mme. Enjolras pleaded to her husband.

"You know how hard it is for me as it is for you! Do see! And he has to learn! We cannot afford to have his radical ideas affect the Enjolrases once more! You know what happened before! That child knows naught of the monarchy's prowesses! That is why I tried to raise him to serve the King! You must see that I am doing this to protect him and his entourage of foolish classmates and 'friends'!" Olivier argued, panting slightly after a rigorous bout of coughs the moment he finished admonishing her.

When he has calmed his breaths, he felt her long fingers entwine with his hand and relaxed even more when Élisabeth used her thumb to orchestrate gyrating ministrations on the back of his hand. "Olivier, I love you, but I know his forced departure, which you initiated, is causing you much, much pain. And I do understand, dear, what you mean, but I have to be honest with you: taking him away from our shelter will _not_ stop him. You are liberating him, but in the same sense, you are pushing, pushing him away," she began tiredly, moving to run her hands through his still golden curls.

"This is not the way to protect him, Olivier," she continued, gazing at him through unshed tears. "'You can never, ever impede an insurrection stirred by the heart.' Were those not the very words you told me when you decided to have me as your wife? Such is the case for Aurélien, Olivier. And be as it may, we cannot stop him or his friends. I have a proposition, but I fear you would not like it."

"Fear, my dear, is a twisted mask, but regardless of whether or not I will come to like it, _do_ tell me what it is you suggest," Olivier said, sighing as he gazed at her green eyes.

"Well, it is of two faces, which is at the very least something you could expect."

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**[A/N]: **Brief, yes. But I must warn you all to be wary of their namesakes. It is crucial for the next chapters or so. :) Tell me, then, m'amie, what do you think of his parents?


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